


A Word Without A Name

by Savrola



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22255909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savrola/pseuds/Savrola
Summary: Sylvain is stuck with himself, and there's nobody else in the world he hates more.[Angst/self loathing, ends with some hope and also Sylvix]
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 144





	A Word Without A Name

He's been reading words lately.

Maybe that isn't right, of course he always reads words, but thanks to a book Linhardt's father had sent for his birthday -- which he had then generously donated to quenching Sylvain's curiosity (read: had left on his desk after class) he's been reading about words of curiosity lately.

In it there are words like _sonder,_ which is what happens when you realize everyone around you has a life as busy and complex as your own, and maybe hidden within the lines of that word there's also the inner monologue of _what, of course they do,_ followed by the realization that while you can consciously know something like that it's a very different beast to sit down and watch strangers and half-acquaintances running through the halls and feel, for a moment, a flash of empathy in their expression. Their worry they'll be late to class. That knowledge that their crush will never notice them.

Then from a far off land there's the word _altschmerz,_ a weariness of the same old problems you've always had. Sylvain knows that word intimately, too -- the frustration that your struggle doesn't even come with the excitement of novelty, that it's the same old hurt you've felt again and again like the same tired old not-friend showing up to play, and you go to get your toy sword because, well, you have to, but you won't enjoy it and you know you'll never win.

Sylvain doesn't know if there's a word out there for the feeling that blooms behind his sternum when he hears Felix, something akin to a sibling (except he's a sibling he actually likes) say something kind to him. It's on a spectrum where the poles are guilt ( _oh goddess I've misled him to believe I'm something besides a miserable pile of shit_ ) and fear ( _he's going to find out, and oh he'll hurt when he does_ ) and pity ( _let him down just like his own brother_ ) and hope ( _maybe I can keep lying a little longer_ ).

( _If he'll smile at me like that again_ )

Felix, panting from the exertion of narrowly winning a spar, cocks his head while he wipes the sweat from his forehead and says "See, you're capable when you just try."

And that feeling hits Sylvain hard, that maybe he should come with a warning label. Because this kid looks up to him, is giving him a little smile and isn't that sad -- that poor Felix has such shitty judgement that he chooses to believe in him.

Sylvain, of all people, whose heart flutters _then_ but not when he asks the girl he's brought to bed that night to get on her knees so he can picture that kid's face through the back of her head.

Does Felix know that he thinks about him? Does he know that Sylvain bites back his name on his tongue when he thinks of that look, that smile, to push him over the edge?

No, of course not. He likes him because he _isn't_ privy to that sort of knowledge; because that's the only reason anyone ever likes Sylvain. They see the things he wants them to see, say what he wants them to say in conversations he's planned out lying in bed next to navy-haired girls while they drift off to sleep, and then they think they like him.

He remembers a talk he'd had with the professor a few nights ago, when he'd been out alone with a mostly empty vodka bottle, breaking curfew and watching the figures of wyverns float past the glowing moon. She'd appeared like a ghost with her arms crossed and he made no attempt to hide from her. Hiding from the professor was like lying to Ingrid: it never worked, and in the end you only ever felt bad for even attempting it. Besides, he knew he was bound to be found by someone eventually. He was just glad in that moment that it was her.

"I'd offer you some," and he shook the empty bottle in his hand, "But I'm fresh out."

She could clearly smell it on his breath, and she recoiled with a grimace. "That stuff is poison," she said, and looked at him with her stony green eyes, "Why are you drinking that?"

"Maybe there's parts of me that should be poisoned," he shrugged. He'd never seen the look that crossed her face then, the secondhand pain she caught just from seeing him hurt, but once he did see it he regretted ever learning to speak at all because _he caused that._

"It's important to befriend yourself, Sylvain," she said softly, and with more sadness to her voice than he'd ever heard, "You're the only person you'll ever meet that you can't walk away from."

"That's the worst part," he laughed, "I'm like my own Siamese twin or something, and there's nobody else I'd hate being stuck with more."

She swatted him on the back of the head just enough to hurt, but the shock of it hit him like he'd been punched in the gut instead. The bottle fell from his hand and his vision, rolling like seasickness, found her, stern and unwavering in the moonlight. He sneered at her. "You wanna tell me what your problem is, professor?"

"You are the only person you'll be with until the very end --"

"Me and Felix," and he kicks the bits of glass, hates himself for wasting the last swig that was in there after all.

"So don't poison yourself. Felix isn't."

"Felix is a fucking idiot," Sylvain slurred, and stomped onto his feet.

"He thinks the world of you."

"That's why he's a fucking idiot."

She left him alone with the words, "Even when you're disgusted by yourself, your friends find parts of you to love. You should do the same."

Sylvain wondered the whole way back to his room how long it might take him to find something to love inside him. Centuries, probably.

\---

It's months later when he wakes in the morning all alone except for the two people he can never walk away from.

Felix is still asleep at his side, utterly spent from the night before. He never had to say it for Sylvain to know it was his first time with another person -- he was clumsy for the first time in his life, navigated his uncertainty with their fingers laced together and Sylvain's name on his tongue, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen when the initial discomfort turned to pleasure, when Felix became a soft, sweet thing in his lap and clung to him with tenderness Sylvain had almost forgotten he was capable of.

Somewhere inside the bitter crest-bearing piece of shit there's a person Felix deems worthy giving that gift to. Felix, who normally wouldn't deem anyone in the monastery worthy of licking his boots, is curled against someone, naked and vulnerable for the first time in his life and it's _him._

It's _Sylvain._

There has to be something to the professor's words. She's never been wrong before, and when he presses his face into long navy hair and kisses the scalp beneath he thinks maybe he could give liking that piece of shit a try. If Felix likes him, he can't be all bad.

**Author's Note:**

> My Twitter is [@LadySavrola](https://mobile.twitter.com/LadySavrola)  
> Please consider leaving a comment or kudo!


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